


Impersonation

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24945208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: "Watson," Holmes said over the sound of cutlery clinking and wine glasses chiming, "I do believe the man sitting two tables across from us is William Gillette."
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37
Collections: ACD Holmesfest Gift Exchange





	Impersonation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capt_facepalm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capt_facepalm/gifts).



> Many thanks to Mr Garonne for beta-reading!
> 
> Written for capt_facepalm for ACD Holmesfest 2017

_London, September 1901_

"Watson," Holmes said over the sound of cutlery clinking and wine glasses chiming, "I do believe the man sitting two tables across from us is William Gillette."

I did not do anything so gauche as turning my head to stare, but I was hard pressed not to. Gillette, here at Simpson's! I had never met the man, but we had corresponded extensively while he was writing his play.

I knew he was in London, of course. His play would be opening at the Lyceum in a few days' time, and he would reprise the role with which he had known such success on Broadway for the last two years. 

It was difficult to resist the temptation to turn around in my seat to stare at him.

"You know you cannot make such a statement to me without justifying it," I told my friend. "How did you come to this conclusion?"

Holmes put down his wine glass and began to enumerate on his fingers.

"Firstly, the man is clearly an actor. He has been careless enough to leave traces of facepaint under his jaw."

Holmes sounded disapproving. He considered lack of attention to detail to be a major flaw in a man's character.

"Secondly, his accent when he spoke to the waiter just now identified him as one of our cousins from across the Atlantic, as does the illustrated guide to London he is leafing through."

"And?" I waited impatiently for the master stroke.

A wry smile played across Holmes' face. "Well, there was one further minor detail that confirmed his identity for me. He looks remarkably like the fellow in those publicity photographs you were at such pains to hide from me."

I was provoked into a half-laugh, half-grimace. "I cannot cry 'bravo', Holmes. That was too easy."

Mr Gillette had sent me a stack of colour photographic plates a few months ago via my agent, Doyle. I had not shown them to Holmes, knowing he would be irritated by the peculiar curved pipe and ridiculously ostentatious dressing gown. I might have known I could not keep them hidden from him forever.

"Should we introduce ourselves, do you think?" I suggested.

Gillette was due to call at Baker Street the following morning with Doyle. Holmes and I had been invited to the play's dress rehearsal today, but Holmes had refused. I too was somewhat leery of seeing a simulacrum of myself portrayed by a stranger -- and even less keen on seeing some strange, aping version of Holmes.

We had not travelled to New York to see the play, despite Mr Gillette's repeated warm invitations, but we had read a copy of the script.

Holmes had been scathing. " _'Died of grief'_ , indeed. Perhaps you should write an article for the Lancet about that medical wonder." He had thrown down the manuscript. "And as for blackmailers, I have always found that they respond well to a convincing threat of violence." 

To my relief, he had not even touched upon the fictional Holmes' romance with the character of Miss Alice Faulkner. 

We had given Gillette carte blanche in the writing of his play, and in his treatment of the character of Sherlock Holmes. "Marry him, kill him, or do what you like with him," Holmes had told Doyle in a fit of impatience, but I was not sure he had meant to be taken quite so literally. 

If I am to be honest, we had agreed to the stage production for purely pecuniary reasons. My friend was far too prone to accepting pro bono cases, and our joint financial situation had not flourished in parallel with Holmes' fame.

While we were debating whether or not we should introduce ourselves to Gillette, I caught sight of my agent Doyle, returning from the conveniences.

"Dr Watson!" he exclaimed, stopping beside our table. "Mr Holmes!"

We rose to shake hands with him. Gillette had turned in his seat, hearing our names, and Doyle beckoned him over.

"Gentlemen, allow me to present Mr William Gillette. Gillette, Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson."

Gillette was as tall as Holmes, but more heavily built. He also had considerably more hair than Holmes did, which afforded me a moment of amusement. Holmes was sensitive about his receding hairline, though he always claimed it was very practical when it came to fitting wigs. Discounting the hair, Gillette bore a certain resemblance to Sidney Paget's brother-in-law, model for his illustrations. In fact, he looked more like Mr Paget than Holmes did.

He was not in costume, thank goodness. Holmes had already given me an earful about the ridiculous deerstalker, though that was originally Paget's fault, not Gillette's. And certainly not mine!

Gillette was busy examining us with just as much frank curiosity as we were examining him. I suppose we looked nothing like he had imagined us. Doyle carried the lion's share of the conversation at first, filling us in on the success of today's dress rehearsal. He suggested we join their table, and we called the waiter to lay two extra places.

Once we were all seated, Gillette and Holmes went on eyeing one another.

"Mr Holmes, may I ask you a question?" Gillette ventured.

He spoke with an American twang, which I sincerely hoped he didn't use on stage.

Holmes inclined his head graciously.

Gillette cleared his throat. "Of all the parts you have played -- of all the disguises you have donned in your life -- which did you enjoy the most?"

It was not what I had been expecting, and judging by the almost imperceptible flicker of Holmes' expression, it was not what he had expected either.

"You pose a very interesting question," he said, and that was the starting gun for a heated discussion of impersonation and disguise. Holmes based his own method entirely on observation and mimicry, while Gillette claimed to rely principally on his imagination, convincing his brain that he was the person he played. Doyle and myself listened with interest.

"I must admit to a strong feeling of relief, Dr Watson," Doyle murmured to me. "I wasn't sure how well they would get along."

"I know precisely what you mean, Dr Doyle."

While the fish was replaced by the main, the conversation turned to the specific topic of Gillette's portrayal of Holmes.

Gillette gave us a rueful grin. "I may have taken some liberties -- entertainment must come before accuracy, you know."

Holmes' face took on a long-suffering cast. "So Watson has often told me."

"I have certainly been guilty of sensationalism at times," I admitted. "But what writer hasn't?"

I was more interested in Gillette as a writer than as an actor, naturally. I had invited him to play in my sandbox, so to speak.

"I know you have written many plays, Mr Gillette, featuring many characters of your own invention," I added. "I did wonder whether you found it constraining to use someone else's?"

"Not in the slightest!" he exclaimed without hesitation. "But as I said, I didn't hesitate to take a few liberties -- as no doubt you too have done from time to time while transcribing your own experiences to the page."

I laughed. "All the time, in fact."

As our meal drew to a close, I decided I liked William Gillette. He was a charming man, though so different from Holmes. Like his play, he was conventional, even bourgeois, and Holmes was decidedly not. Gillette seemed highly intelligent, however, and I wondered what he must be like on stage.

We took our leave of Gillette and Doyle on the pavement outside Simpson's.

"I do hope you will be able to attend the opening on Saturday," Gillette said diffidently, and I realised it would mean a great deal to him if we did.

I had intended to attend discreetly, much later in the play's run when all the fuss would have died down. I'd also been hoping I could persuade Holmes to come with me.

To my amazement, Holmes said, "I certainly intend to be there on Saturday. Incognito, of course."

"Of course," Gillette echoed, sounding delighted, and as amazed as I myself was. He turned to me. "Dr Watson -- "

"I look forward to it," I said.

.. .. ..

We took seats in the stalls, having refused Gillette's offer of the dress circle. We settled into our places, entirely ignored by the people around us. Holmes had always avoided being photographed, and only his clients and personal acquaintances were familiar with his appearance.

"Brace yourself, Watson," Holmes murmured as the curtain rose.

Reading the script was no preparation for the overwhelming experience of seeing the play come to life before my eyes.

The fictional John Watson spent relatively little time on stage, and to him I paid no attention. We shared so little besides a name.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand -- ! I was fascinated by Gillette. Sometimes he would use a particular gesture or turn of phrase, and it was like seeing a figment of my own imagination come to life. Other times, I had to grimace and shake my head, watching Holmes stride about the stage like an unmounted dragoon, or romance the feeble impersonation of Mrs Irene Norton that was Miss Alice Faulkner.

On the whole, it was a much more enjoyable experience than I had feared. I was glad I had come.

The audience was of a like mind. The play ended to thunderous applause, and the young gentleman in the next seat turned to me.

"Capital! Simply capital," he cried. "I feel like I have finally met Holmes at last."

I managed to suppress a startled laugh. "Indeed, sir?"

Afterwards, out in the cold night air, Holmes was silent as we waited for a cab. 

"A very strange experience," he said finally.

I wholeheartedly agreed.

Holmes wore a thoughtful look. "When you and I are long forgotten, Watson, that fictional Holmes will still live on."

"You think so?" I said, surprised.

"Between you and Gillette you have made him immortal."

Holmes hailed a cab, and as we climbed inside I could not shake the peculiar feeling that he was right.


End file.
